


Here Comes Santa Claus

by AquaWolfGirl



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Ben is "Santa Claus", C'mon it's cute, Christmas AU, F/M, Hallmark-ish AU, Merry Christmas!, Rey is a Single Mom, Santa Claus AU, teeth-rotting fluff, totally cheesy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 23:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17130647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: Like all of the men in his family before him, Ben has been given the title of Santa Claus. You know, the jolly man who goes around and says "Ho, ho, ho" and gives toys to all the billions of children? Yeah, he's taking that job on.The only problem? This is his first year. And former Santa Claus Uncle Luke is great, but he's not so great at telling Ben all he needs to know before the big night.Rey is a single mom with two little sons, wondering how in the hell she's going to make Christmas "merry and bright" with a small paycheck and not a lot of hope.There are the stories of Santa getting caught, of the way he just winks and rushes back up the chimney as quick as he came.This is not one of those stories.





	Here Comes Santa Claus

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure this is the plot of some terrible but wonderful Hallmark movie, but oh well, I'm taking it. The idea came to me like 2 days before Christmas but who cares? I'm going to try and finish it in 3 chapters because I'm insane.  
> If you're expecting brilliant writing, I'd recommend turning back, because this plot is slap-dasher-and-dancer-and-prancer-and-vixen. But oh well, it'll be cute, right?

Ben never thought he’d be the right fit for the job.

Han wasn’t, that’s for sure. His father hung up the hat and the suit the morning after his first Christmas Eve, and declared (much to no one’s surprise) that he’d much rather fix the sleigh than ride in it ever again.

Leia was relieved. The woman who’s held the title of ‘Mrs. Claus’ for the past few decades did not consider her husband’s 6 loop-de-loops in a row an achievement, especially considering the amount of presents they almost lost in the process.

Luke was a better Santa Claus. His beard has more gray and brown than white, and his laugh might not be as jolly as some Santas past, but there’s a twinkle in his blue eyes that’s undeniable.

There’s also a good bit more mischief than Santas past, but that’s to be debated.

Luke’s good. He’s not the best there ever was, no, that was probably John of ’54. But he’s good.

And that’s exactly why he shouldn’t leave.

“One more year,” Ben had tried, sitting in the North Pole’s kitchen with a mug of hot cocoa between his hands.

“You said that last year.” Whipped cream clings to his uncle’s mustache. There’s that damn twinkle they sing about in carols. They never sing about Santa smirking, though. For as often as his uncle Luke smirks, Ben thinks there should be an entire Christmas album dedicated to it. “You can try to avoid it as much as you want, but you’re going to have to put on the suit eventually.”

Eventually, his uncle had said. He’d hoped that ‘eventually’ meant a few years down the line.

He was wrong.

“You’ve been watching your uncle do it for years,” Leia says around the few pins between her lips. “You know what needs to happen.”

“Because delivering billions of presents to billions of children is so easy. Ow!”

Ben looks down to where his mother has stabbed him, receiving a hard glare for his sass.

“Your father did it. You can do it.”

“Dad did it and gave half of the reindeer an anxiety attack mid-flight. Including Blitzen.” The so-called toughest, roughest reindeer had been left shaking for days.

Leia continues to pin the jacket, forcing the little metal pins through the red-dyed shearling. Luke still wears the red fur-lined coat, but exchanged the red pants for jeans years ago. The shiny black boots have stayed, though they’ve lost their luster over the years.

The one thing that has stayed the same throughout the years has been the hat. Though the fur puff on the end is replaced every year, and the band around the head has been fluffed and sewn back up more times than Ben can count, the hat is a requirement. Wear sports shoes instead of boots, wear jeans instead of red velvet pants, wear a leather jacket instead of the fur-lined one, no one cares that much. The hat, though -- the hat is a must.

“This will keep you warm,” Leia says, of the shearling she’s pinning. Ben’s seen the print-outs of the Ugg coat she’s copying, and yes, he agrees, it will keep him warm, and it looks similar enough to the old coat to satisfy tradition.

He just wishes he didn’t have to wear it quite yet.

*

“Should we put Gracie on the naughty list? She just disobeyed her parents.”

“What did they tell her to do?” Ben asks, pushing his glasses up his nose as he analyzes the constantly updating screen of the Naughty and Nice list.

“They told her to go to bed without dessert. She snuck down after they were asleep and got an ice cream cone from the freezer.”

Naughty? Yes. Terrible? No. “No, but she’ll get one less candy bar in her stocking,” Ben offers, looking over his shoulder and watching as the head elf nods. The little jingle bell on top of his head rings as he does so, and Ben fights a smile as the little man scurries off to make the note in the child’s file.

Things have changed, over the years. Some Santas are harder than others. A few decades back, poor little Gracie would have gotten no presents at all. But kids are kids, and it’s a difficult world to live in, nowadays. If it makes him a bad Santa for giving out more presents instead of less, then so be it. But he’s not going to put a girl on the naughty list for wanting a bit of ice cream.

“Sir Ben!”

“Yes, Eddie?” The newest Santa calls, turning in the big leather chair to take the envelope from the small elf.

“New letter, just in.” The poor thing is breathless, the bell bouncing up and down as the elf pants, his hands on his knees.

“Thank you, Eddie. Go get some milk and cookies, you’ve earned it,” Ben offers, reminding himself to give the elf a raise. He’s one of the new ones, straight from training.

“Yes, sir! Right away, sir! Thank you, sir!”

Before Ben can correct the elf that he's not a sir, to just call him _Ben_ , he’s rushing off to the kitchens, no doubt to bother Leia about his reward.

Ben watches him rush back down the stairs to the lower floors of the Workshop before he looks down at the letter he’s been given.

The envelope’s been reused, it seems. There’s a piece of paper taped meticulously to the front of the envelope, covering what was once a printed address. A bill envelope it seems, the shape longer than most envelopes that come his way, and still bearing the plastic window. Ben frowns, flipping it over and seeing the taped flap.

He picks up the peppermint-handled letter opener from the desk, slipping the blade beneath the paper and tearing the envelope.

_Dear Santa…_

These letters are the hardest to read.

There are the presents they can’t give for logistical reasons. Giraffes just won’t sit in the sleigh, and they can’t very well make every girl a princess. They explain and replace the best that they can, with stuffed wild animals and rhinestone tiaras and new princess dresses. It’s not a perfect solution, no, but it’s what they can do.

But these… these don’t have a solution. Not entirely.

_We want our Daddy back, more than anything._

Some are vague, and Ben has to look up their file to figure out what happened. Sometimes they just up and left. Sometimes they got sick. Sometimes they fought for their country, and never returned. And sometimes it was an accident, of some sort.

There’s no true solution. One Santa wrote letters from the parents and siblings and grandparents or whoever, but that crashed and burned terribly. It’s easier to do that with pets, but it’s more difficult to do that with people, especially those who could come back.

Another Santa tried to put tags on some of the gifts, writing it “From Daddy” or “From Mama” or whoever, but that resulted in heartache more than healing.

Ultimately, it’s too hard. They can try, and they have. But the truth is… the truth is there are some things that they can’t do. There are presents they can’t deliver, and for reasons other than it simply won’t fit in the sleigh.

Ben reads through the letter, reading about how this Daddy left one night. He bites his lip, his cheek braced against his palm as he reads. The older sibling, Kaleb, wrote this. He knows that handwriting. And then the little brother, Elliot, comes in at the end in obviously kindergartener handwriting-

_I want a puppy, please!_

A puppy, Ben thinks, smiling to himself as he looks at the security cameras focused on the plush-animal-stuffing-station. He can do a puppy, at least.

* 

“Elliot, Kaleb, time for dinner!”

Steam curls up from the mac and cheese as she scoops it into bowls. It’s maybe a little overcooked, a little mushier than they usually like it, but it’s better than entirely raw, right?

Rey sighs, looking into the pot and seeing that there’s just barely enough for one more serving. It will do. There are some crackers in the cupboard, probably, she can nibble on those later…

“Oof!”

She looks down, smiling as she sees a mess of blond curls and little arms wrapped around her leg. Her hand finds her son’s shoulder, and she rubs at his back.

“All right, love, you’ve got to let go. Mommy has hot dishes in her hands, and she doesn’t want to drop them, okay?”

Elliot lets go and rushes towards the rickety kitchen table instead, his smile missing a front tooth. She sets his bowl down in front of him with a, “Careful, it’s hot,” and a kiss to his messy blond hair.

“Kaleb!” she calls, setting the older boy’s bowl across from his brother’s. “Dinner!”

“Coming!”

The mac and cheese is too mushy, Rey decides, standing by the stove with a spoon and the pot as she watches the boys eat their dinner. Kaleb has his spoon in one hand and a book in the other, cheese sauce occasionally falling to the pages. Rey smiles as he swipes it up immediately with a little finger, wondering whether he’s trying to save the bit of savory sauce, or the book. Elliot eats slowly, savoring each character-shaped noodle and blowing on each bite like she taught him, even though the pasta’s plenty cool.

There’s snow in the forecast, the weatherman said. Rey looks outside, feeling the bitter cold through the unsealed spots in the apartment windows. It’s not snowing yet, but it could overnight. And that would affect the buses, which would affect her commute to work. Would it be worth it to spend some of the Christmas money to get a cab? That way she can get to work and earn that money back, and she won’t get another strike with Plutt on being late. She has too many strikes already from taking Elliot to the pediatrician—

“Mommy?”

Rey startles, looking towards where Elliot’s sliding off of the creaky chair and walking towards her with his spoon and his bowl in his hands. Rey smiles, stepping aside so that he can put them in the sink.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she says, bending to press another kiss to his curls. He needs a bath, and they’re running out of shampoo. Kids shampoo is a bit cheaper, she can buy another bottle of that and use it alongside them. Who cares if she smells like fake strawberries?

The tree in the corner’s a sad little thing, Rey thinks, after the kids are bathed and in bed and she’s sitting on the worn leather couch, staring at the Christmas tree. She found it at some street sale, the branches having lost much of their fake pine needles and more lights burned out than shining bright. It’s not tall, either, about as tall as her eight year old Kaleb.

She sips her tea, staring at the empty space under the sad-looking tree. Come Christmas, it’ll look even sadder, with just a handful of presents underneath of it.

Elliot asked for a puppy. The apartment doesn’t allow pets, and so the small, beady-eyed little stuffed dog she bought will have to do.

Her tea’s gone cold by the time she goes to bed, balancing numbers in her head in an attempt to maybe, just maybe… make this Christmas a bit better for them.


End file.
